


Behind Their Dark Glass

by strixus



Category: Warcraft, Warcraft III, World of Warcraft
Genre: #Yulechat Challenge 2011, Angst, F/M, Flashback, Flashforward - Freeform, M/M, Non-sexual Non-Con, Other, Psychological Trauma, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-20
Updated: 2011-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-27 15:31:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strixus/pseuds/strixus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The link between the Lord of Outland and the Prince of the Sin'dorei is stronger than loyalty. Bound in an ever-tightening web of fate and magic together, fate may not allow them anything that is theirs.</p><p>An exploration of the nature of magic, madness, love, and fate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind Their Dark Glass

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cheshire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheshire/gifts).



> “Behind their dark glass, the mad own nothing.”  
> ― Penelope Fitzgerald, Charlotte Mew and Her Friends

Kael'thas stood, looking out beyond its balcony onto the chaos and seething nightmare that was the Netherstorm. He could feel the energies of its swirling, dark void more than see them. There was no ignoring the ever present tug of his craving for its arcane energies, their teasing edges enough to keep him keenly aware of the power that lay beyond the protected walls of his seized fortress. Blue and gold, purple and crimson, and a swirl of colors that he had no name for set the night afire, glowing against an inky black that seemed nearly alive – the storm of energies in which the Keep floated never calmed, never stopped.

The land of this world was fractured, cast adrift in that storm of magical forces. Though Tempest Keep sat in its outer reaches, on the fringe of what was left of habitable land here, it  was still besieged by its rage even this far from the raging edge where atmosphere met the Twisting Nether. Yet standing here the wind against his face was little more than a stiff breeze; chill and cold, yes, but nothing compared to the gales beyond the protective barrier of the Keep its self. The Naaru were, Kale admitted to himself, incredible in their power – if a bit foolish in its use – and this place and was a testament to it and the race of strange beings whom had built it.

That wind, always smelling of a coming thunderstorm, blew a sudden biting gust through the open portal and Kael pulled the thick crimson robes he wore closer about his shoulders to ward off the chill. He should try to sleep again, he thought as he looked towards the open door to the room taken over for his bedroom to the rumpled sheets and pillows of his sleeping area beyond. The piles of vividly colored cushions and carpets clashed oddly with the dull pink glow of the room, and like so many things that simply seem to be there when thought of, the Keep had provided them, somehow.

He had wondered at that, and so many other small oddities of this Naaru made place in his first days here. Yet it always seemed there were problems more important than investigating the oddities of this place. His own people here were now turning away from him, under some horrible influence of the Naaru who remained. Voren'thal, the fool, had taken a legion and betrayed him, going off to worship the naaru like some simpering dog. It was if some force had compelled the weak minded twit to turn coat, yet Kael could not find how the Naaru of Shattrath City had done it to one of his most trusted generals.

He ground his teeth in frustration. Surely the naaru held the secret to their freedom from this addiction, but he would use them as a source of power rather than as a savior. His people had made that mistake once before, following the light like sheep, putting their trust in it and its human followers. And now the forests of his childhood were twisted and warped, and the very city of his youth reduced to ashes. How could Voren’thal have fallen prey to that trap of hope and trust again? He had no trust for humans, nor any who associated with them. The disgust brought the acid up in his throat, and he tasted the thick mix of rotted metal and his own blood in the mix. Even with the constant magical energies, he knew his health was damaged from the time without their flow. He would never see his father’s three thousand years, let alone likely even half of that. All thanks to humans and their blind greed and hate.

He watched the arcane storm with hungry eyes, aware even now of his hunger for its powers. Each day his experiments brought him closer to finding a way to reliably extract its powers to feed himself and his people, and each day he felt closer to finally filling that endless hunger that burned inside him. For the first time since the loss of the Sunwell, he did not feel himself on the verge of madness, and his thoughts at last were slowly becoming clear again as the fog of hunger lifted from them. What must his people be going through back on Azeroth, cut off from everything and starving in a way more painful than a lack of food or water could ever be? The thought made his skin crawl, and he turned from the portal with a sigh.

Turned away from the window, the wind blew the fine strands of his blond hair into his face and around his long, graceful ears. Brushing the strands away with a hand, he caught his own reflection in a long mirrored surface of wall close by. And the image of the figure standing on the balcony behind him.

 

* * *

 

 _How could the night elves stand it, he wondered? Every bone in his body felt as though it were throbbing, his flesh crawling with invisible fire. His guts twisted, and he tasted the thick, foul taste of demonic magics in his throat. It radiated like searing heat and blasting wind from the glowing green stone, and pulsed in his blood with each throb of the green glyphs that marked its surface. And it called to him, urging him closer, whispering to him in every fiber of his being._

 _Yet the purple skinned elves stood calmly, looking on at the interrupted ritual, their only emotion aimed at the horned and winged being that stood prisoner in his own ritual circles. Kael forced himself to focus on the demon - no, he decided, though the night elf Maiev might call him demon, Illidan was clearly an elf despite the demonic features - and saw in the seemingly young face an echo of the First of the Druids._

 _As the bearded elf raged, Kael did his best to watch the prisoner, observing. What could drive a night elf to such desire for arcane power? He knew only a little of them, from his grandfather’s stories. Dath’Remar had been highborn more than high elf, even with the influences of the Sunwell of his creation, and from the stories he had told a young Kael centuries ago now. As he watched, however, he was suddenly aware that, despite his raging towards - his brother, how interesting - that the bound, sightless gaze seemed to fix not on Stormrage, but on himself._

 _Then he felt it. Under the horrible, gut wrenching throb of the Eye of Sargaras, there was a second pulse, slower, as shallow as the breath of a dying elf, but surging such that he could feel it pushing against his mind. And in it was a feeling he knew, a feeling of anger and rage, bottled like an alchemists brew, combined with a sadness that made Kael aware of the dull ache that throbbed in his chest._

 _Malfurion’s words suddenly rang clearly in his ears, the druid’s voice seeming to crack with emotion as he all but screamed the words. “Because of you, Tyrande is dead!” Grief and anger flooded the pulse of magic that Kael sensed, a feeling that burned through him._

 _This was wrong. Maiev had lied to the First Druid? What else had she lied about? This elf was no demon, for that matter. And so, he opened his mouth, and spoke._

 

* * *

 

Catching his breath he spun on a heel. “Master,” he nodded his head slightly, trying to hide both his surprise and annoyance. Lord Illidan stood in the frame of the window, a large, dark shape blotting out the swirling colors of the storm beyond. Great wings folded, clawed hands hanging at his sides, his blind gaze looking into the dimly lit room directly at Kael's face, the Lord of Outland stood impassively, as if he had simply walked in through an open door.

“It is late, My Lord, why have you come?” The cover of formality fell over him almost reflexively from his youth, covering his voice evenly. “Had I been expecting you-”

A long stride brought the great figure to stand close to Kael in a single step. The air filled with his scent, a mix of brimstone and a forest after a summer shower, each trying to overwhelm the other, and Kael fought himself not to step back from the overwhelming presence. Tall as he might be for an elf, the night elven demon towered head and shoulders above him, and even now he still felt intimidated as he looked up into that sightless face, no matter how much time he had spent near him.

A long fingered, clawed hand reached up and cupped the side of Kael's face, brushing back strands of hair, one clawed finger tracing the curve of an eyebrow before the strong fingers closed almost lightly around the line of his jaw.

“There are no other eyes here, Kael’thas, you do not need to speak to me like that behind your own doors.”

Wincing at the formal full use of his name, he swallowed hard, and felt the simultaneously searing heat and burning cold of the hand, and turned his face into the broad palm before pulling away slowly. Even now, stripped of his people and his past, Illidan had a kaldorei’s formality.

“You should not have come, not without warning me first. There are too many who seek to harm you, my Lord, to let them know. You should not be here.” But the words tasted like ash in his mouth, and his own heart betrayed his rational thoughts. He wanted his Lord here, wanted his presence, no matter what pretense and their own designs said otherwise.

Illidan grunted, a deep, animal sound of annoyance and frustration and shifted his great wings. “I am the Lord of Outland, let them try to harm me.” He placed his hand back on Kael's face, his claws lightly tracing over the finely blushed pale skin. “And if they tried to harm you, my Prince, I would turn them to stone where they stood, and grind them to sand beneath my own feet.” The smile revealed the long, sharp fangs which had replaced the canines, a smile filled with cruelty.

How ever much Kael wanted to believe the words, he knew there were those in this world and others who could and would dethrone his Lord with a whim. But they were comforting words, spoken for both their ears, and no matter how false they might be in truth they soothed the anxieties which always stirred in Kael's mind when they were behind closed doors and the barriers of pretense were lowered. Kael let the strongly muscled arm of his lord slip around his side and under the fabric of the robe, caressing the bare skin of his side beneath as the hand slid comfortably to rest on the small of his back and let it pull him against Illidan's broad chest. The dark purple skin burned his skin as if touching ice, but it radiated a nearly furnace like heat.

Sightless, bound eyes gazed down at him, their spectral sight seeing him far more clearly in the dim purple light than Kael could see the demon's face. Even in the dim glowing pink light he could see the ravages of the centuries on what had once been a young and hansom face, to say nothing of the lines left carved into his face by the torment of centuries of isolation in darkness. What had once been the glossy black, feather-like hair of a young night elf boy had been turned to long, matted locks of coarse horse hair, and now hung in uneven lengths around notched but still gracefully arching long pointed ears.

Kael reached a hand towards the face looming over him, running narrow fingertips along the edge of the cloth that bound the sightless eyes, across the strong cheekbone, coming to rest lightly on the dark, cracked skin of the broad, thick lips. Illidan brushed the hand away and leaned the rest of the way down, pulling Kael's face towards his and brushing his lips against Kael's, and he could taste the rotten metal flavor of arcane power even on his skin. Without pause, the elf prince pushed his lips against the great, terrible face of the Lord of Outland, pushing lips apart with his own and drinking in the taste of sulfur and magic. The waves of arcane energy flowed freely, washing over Kael like waves of water, and he felt his own arcane energies rise up in response to the rising energies of Illidan.

It was always like this, the overwhelming waves of magical energies pulling him under, pulling him closer, and the intense, burning heat of Illidan's mouth feeling as if it were trying to devour him with the kiss. Wrapped in the energies, past and present seemed to blend, with memories and feelings washing along currents of power. Some said even the future was there to be seen, if one looked hard enough. And he could drink freely, filling himself with the energies to nearly bursting, without fear of draining the source, his own hunger nearly insatiable as it was, the arcane and demonic energy which filled the Lord of Outland was all but limitless.

 

* * *

 _He had thought it first the infatuations of a young woman, the inevitable fickle emotional attachments of youth which were so often mistaken for love. Her smile upon being shown something new with her power, her preference for his company to nearly any other but her mentor, Antonidas. Yet as Jaina had grown from awkward youth into womanhood, from a girl with great potential into one of the Kirin Tor’s greatest mages, those fleeting smiles and flushing cheeks had still remained whenever Kael was in her presence._

 _He had thought, too, that her heart was clearly spoken for. The young prince of Lordaeron, Arthas, seemed to captivate her whenever he visited Dalaran or escorted Jaina back to the city whenever the politics of the world she had been born into called her. And yet, the moment he was gone, Kael found himself the sole object of her attentions beyond her studies._

 _And he could not deny her beauty. To him, she was like an exotic flower, grown in the hothouses of the Egan’s. Her face and hair reminded him much of an elven beauty, yet her body had none of the shear lines and hard edges of the lean muscled women of Silvermoon: she was soft and curved, yet still familiar in line and poise to stir his gaze._

 _But he had told himself, so many times it had become a litany in his mind, that she could never really love him. He was hundreds of years older than her, something that he doubted she realized. And to him, humans were so very much like those hothouse flowers; they would bloom in glory for a matter of days, then wilt and die in the blink of an eye. Their lives were brief, their times short. For her to waste what little time she had on someone who was so out of her reach was tragic. And he was beyond her reach, he knew. No human kingdom, not even Kul Tiras, would wed a lone daughter to an elven prince. To them it would be like wedding her to a tree. Any dalliance on her part would only harm her in the long run._

 _Kael had told himself these things, so many times. And yet now, as she pressed her lips against his, they flew from his mind. He made no effort to push her away, but instead reached to pull her closer. He could taste the alien flavor of human flesh on her, and smell the mix of fine scent and ink of the sky on her skin. She reached up, touching the angle of his jaw, pulling away slightly from the kiss to look into his face, a slow, coy smile curling her full lips._

 _The sensation crept over him like a warm draft, rolling over like an invisible fog, tugging at him physically and deeper into his magic. He blinked down at her, slow to realize that it was her magic, entwining with his, mixing the arcane energies that they both could innately channel. Warmth spread through him like the rising sun, and with it the sudden flood of emotion from Jaina, alight with desire. This, he could not resist._

 _And he bent down to her, to taste not only the sweet, exotic spice of her lips, but the fullness of her magic as well._

* * *

 

One of the claws on Illidan's hand drew sharply along the line of his jaw, drawing blood, and he flinched, distracting him from his thoughts as Illidan pulled away from their kiss. “You were thinking,” The Lord of Outland hissed into Kael's ear, “Of her again.”

He let his long tongue protrude from between his fanged teeth, and drew it slowly over the wound his claw had made. He had a demon's taste for blood, no matter what guise of elven mindset he tried to wear over the beast these days. Kael drew his breath in sharply, feeling the acid like burn of the lick, and then the puckering sensation as the wound closed over. With magic so thick in the air, no wound would stay open long.

With her, it had only been a pale shadow of this – she had been a cold ember to Illidan's living inferno – and the differences intensity was startling when he had first felt it, not even really having understood what had happened the first time. But she had, in her own way, loved him, even if he had been forced to reject her for her own well being. And he had loved her, no matter what she had come to believe later. He wondered what had become of her since he had fled the world of his birth, and wondered, not for the first time, if she had really been as close to Thrall as rumor said she had.

The nearly black tongue flicked again, stroking the outer edge of his ear, dragging him back from his memories again. Illidan’s breath was half hiss, half sigh, and with it he let curl forth a wave of pale light. Unlike Kael’s own, the raw power that Illidan leaked seethed in aurora sheets of green and gold, curling in tendrils like smoke, billowing with the careless twitch of wing or hand. Without thought, Kael absorbed them, and felt the texture and richness of the magic burn every nerve in his body, filling the back of his throat with the rotten metal taste of magic. A noise caught in his throat, and he turned what he ashamedly might admit was a groan into a growl. Illidan smiled, but it did not touch his blind eyes.

The growl was in part his own displeasure. Kael could not help but be aware of another undercurrent in the arcane energies surrounding and flowing through him. It was always there, but it felt different when they were this close, a bitter edge of ice in the fire of the energies, with the reminder of his own wandering thoughts. That lingering tang of memory, of regret, that he had learned was the faintest hint of Malfurion’s druidic magics still mixed with Illidan’s own arcane powers. It still made him jealous, still made him angry, even now.

Kael pressed the side of his face against Illidan's and whispered sharply, “And you were thinking about him again, My Lord. You always do.”

 

* * *

 _Dath’Remar had told his grandson bedtime stories of the brothers Stormrage. Only a few decades old, and not yet ready to read the full histories of his people, Kael had assumed, as he lay snuggled amid mageweave sheets and spider silk cushions, that the boys Stormrage were only stories, like the other myths and make-believe things grandfather told him to get him to sleep. They seemed the perfect adventurers to tell stories to a little boy of, an older Kael had thought, even after learning that the many adventures of the twin kaldorei  boys in the woods of the world before the sundering had been true stories._

 _Even now, watching the brothers Stormrage in person, Kael could see the truth of their bond of brotherhood. Greatly weakened by ten thousand years of solitude, by the cruel choice of a woman, and by more bitter words than it would take to fill the Sunwell: the bond was still there despite it all. To see Illidan and his naga, with Malfurion and his druids, both rush away side by side to aid the lost priestess brought back memories of his grandfather’s stories. Even with the dividing affections of a woman between them, Illidan’s actions spoke loudly for the unaltered bond between the twin brothers, even through so much._

 _Yet as they ran into the woods, leaving he and Maiev to glare daggers at one another, Kael felt something else in his heart. Envy was the only word he could find for it, though at first he could not place what it was envy of. It was only as he and his troops marched towards Grand Marshal Gartihos’ encampment on the far side of the ruin of Dalaran did he realize what the emotion really was._

 _There was so much bound up inside of it, like a gnomish puzzle box. There was the envy that he had never known a sibling’s love, let alone shared his life with anyone such as the brothers Stormrage shared theirs. That he would never have a sibling now, with his mother and father slaughtered like cattle by that human beast, stirred under that. And seething over that was the envy that, even with their bond so shattered, they could still put aside differences to save someone they both loved. Kael knew in his heart he was not that brave, not that good, and would never be able to do such a thing._

 _Under that, he felt the flare of rage at the injustice that Illidan had suffered. Of course he had learned the story of the Well of Eternity, and the reason the kaldorei called Illidan the betrayer. But for those very reasons, his people had come to be, and without Illidan’s sacrifice, magic would have faded from the world forever. For these reasons the woman he had loved, and the brother he had loved more, had imprisoned him with a jailer crueler than loneliness, leaving him to what they thought would be an eternity in darkness and solitude. As a boy learning the histories, he had not totally understood why his grandfather had brought his people so far across the new sea, but now Kael understood, and he hated Malfurion Stormrage and Tyrande Whisperwind. That Illidan had been willing to sacrifice so much for magic was something his people should remember, he decided. And in that decision, he felt an anger at the night elves kindle in his heart next to the burning rage at Arthas and the scourge._

 _Part of it, he knew, was the anger that his grandfather’s stories had reached such an end. Of course he had known the history, but it was different now that he could see the lines of anger and pain etched on the faces of both brothers. He mourned, in some part of his mind, for the boys of his childhood bedtime stories, the young druid and the impetuous mage, and for what the world had made of them._

* * *

 

Illidan's clawed fingers stroked Kael's silky blond hair and Kael saw the sadness in his Lord's face. “You need not fear, my Prince, my brother is lost to me, now and forever. You know this, Kael, why do you let his place in my heart trouble you as if he were here and now with us?”

Before he could reply the cracked, rough lips pressed against his own again, the kiss as gentile as the fangs and heavily horned head would allow. Kael could only sigh into the kiss and let himself be pulled into it, letting the heaviness of his heart fade from his mind in the moment. Letting the thoughts of his feelings regarding the First Druid fade with them, all he could feel, for one sweet moment, was the bitter, deep ache of his feelings for Illidan.

In the moment, too, he could not help but feel the pang of guilt that always struck him when he let that emotion dominate his mind. There were things that must be done, and every day seemed to present another problem. More of his people defected every day, and there seemed nothing he could do to save them from their addiction and the siren song of the Light. He could not afford this indulgence. And that made him want it all the more.

“Kael, your silence tonight troubles me,” the voice was a rasp, as close to a whisper as it could manage.

“Forgive me. My mind is troubled, and my heart aches, and I cannot even find peace in having you here.” The admission hurt both to make and to hear, and he could see in Illidan’s face the slight flinch.

A clawed hand wound its way through his hair again, brushing back a stray strand from his face before settling into a soothing motion. “There can never be peace of mind for those like us, Kael,” came the reply, the horned head bowing slightly with the words. “I would not ask that you forget all that you have seen and done. Only that you be with me now, for this moment, as best you can, and I would do the same.”

Kael closed his eyes and turned his head to rest it against the scarred and muscled joint of Illidan’s shoulder. He wanted to ask Illidan’s forgiveness again, but could not muster the words. There was so much inside of him that was a shattered ruin, and so much of his drive that was a mask over the gnawing beasts of guilt and grief; that he could even feel love, even this bitter, painful ache of love that he felt for Illidan, surprised him. Even the admission, the realization, to himself that he had come to feel these things had cost him dearly, perhaps nearly as much so as the feelings themselves. But it was there, having grown in the ashen soil of his heart, and he could not deny it.

Thus, he let himself stand there, supported by the clawed hand at his back, wrapped around the thickness of his chest and holding him, with the soothing strokes of the other hand trying to wipe away the worries that they never could.

* * *

 _In the days after Ice Crown, Kael had felt himself age a thousand years to the day it seemed. Returning to the Black Temple with what seemed little more than a ruined corpse that had not yet had the sense to die, he  had felt every emotion he could imagine. bleeding and broken, Illidan yet lived, though he was secluded to the depths of their conquered Black Temple. And there, he had alternately stood watch, using both their arcane magics to heal the damage done by the Runeblade Frostmorne._

 _Even now, what he was sure were months later, he could see vividly whenever he closed his eyes his Lord laying split from hip to mid ribs, dark violet blood staining the snow a strangely beautiful pink. He could remember standing in the freezing air, unable to breath, and Vashj's hissing voice asking the air what should be done now. He had acted without thinking, kneeling down into the bloodied snow, whispering words of power that would only just keep the life contained within him until they managed to get far enough away from the glacier to open a portal into the heart of the Black Temple its self. Once he was stable, he had sent Vashj away, the naga muttering to herself in her sibilant dialect of Nazja a string of curses and prayers, and had alone tended to their wounded master._

 _And in those long dark months, though time was so hard to tell in the choaking hellish darkness of Shadowmoon Valley, Kael had found himself learning of both the man and demon which had become his master. Behind the projected mask of pride and arrogance, and of anger and fearlessness, there was a soul in torment and confusion. Kael of course knew his history, his people told the story of Illidan and the War of the Ancients the same way the Tauren told the story of the Earthmother – with an almost half legendary reverence that eclipsed any hint of the person who he had been in reality. Even Kael’s grandfather, who had known Illidan personally during the war spoke that way of both of the brothers Stormrage._

 _Yet laying curled in the pile of animal hides and rags which seemed to serve him as a bed, for he would shred anything finer in his fever dreams. Now, Kael saw beyond the fearsome form, to see the boy who's voice still cried out for his brother in the darkness. And he saw the demon which had formed over it, wicked and cruel, who screamed for the blood of his Warden for so many thousands of years, and longed to do worse to her than just kill her. In the cloud of the delirium, he heard these things, heard the cries for forgiveness, and the cries of vengeance._

 _Worst of all, though, were the hours that the fevered mind of the Lord of Outland found its self back in that hellish prison of darkness where he had spent ten thousand years, alone and crying, screaming, and begging for either death or his brother's mercy. Hour after hour, until the deep voice screamed its self hoarse, and then even the cracked whispers were always, “Furion, Furion....”_

 _Those times had driven him mad, for Kael could only watch in horror as his master relived, again and again, those horrible years of imprisonment. The torture of the Wardens, the endless darkness that ate even into his blind eyes, and worse, the horrible, crushing loneliness and guilt. Until at last, driven by the anguish he felt, Kael had moved to the side of his Lord and placed a hand on his horned brow as he knelt there, and spoken softly into the long, graceful ear in just a simple whisper, trying to shift his tones back into those of the language of the highborn._

 _“I am here,” he said, and lay his other hand atop a clenched clawed fist, soothing it to open and relax. The cries slowly eased to whimpers, and then to nothing, as he had sat and whispered soft words to Illidan until he had slept once more._

 _For another two weeks he had repeated this act each time that particular dream settled into the fevered brain, and each time it worked the same as it had the first time. He learned to sooth nearly all of the madness which disturbed the healing processes in similar ways, speaking quietly, staying close, and being a voice which drove away the loneliness. With each time he came to hate Maiev and Malfurion more, his anger growing each time he had to speak as them to sooth his Lord. For he had found himself feeling in his heart more than fealty and admiration for his Lord, it birthing forth sympathy and love. How much he had sacrificed to keep magic in the world, a thing which the high elven people had taken for granted for so many thousands of years, and how much he had lost for his love of the arcane._

 _This evening was like so many of those previous. The heat of the air was oppressive, even with what magical cooling he could bring forth. Vashj had again brought fresh, clean water, infused with magic, and the servants had brought food that would likely remain uneaten. He had washed the fevered flesh as best he could, checked the last remnants of the healing physical wound, and had tried, as he did nearly every night, a spell with break the fever. But he was no priest of the light, and its inability to heal now cemented yet another layer of hatred in his heart for it, over the scar left by the destruction of his homeland. As he sat beside the squalid nest of the Demon Lord, the voice of his master cried out again, lost and alone. He placed a hand on the clenched fist, feeling the network of scars along each finger._

 _With a careful shifting of his weight, Kael brought himself down to where he could whisper in one of the ragged, battle torn ears. “I am here, Illidan.”_

 _To his shock, the voice of his Lord answered him. “Kael'thas,” he called, the name a broken whisper, said with the old accents of the language, from when both the High Elven and Night Elven tongues had been one._

 

* * *

 

Illidan gave a deep low growl, a sound of annoyance meant to draw back Kael's wandering mind. “Too many thoughts in your head, my Prince, and not enough of them on the present.”

Kael could not help but laugh, a rueful sound even to his ears. “My mind is filled with so many things in the present, so many things unpleasant, can you blame me for malingering in the past? Of course I have no peace of mind.” He pressed his hands against the curling fel runes that marked the purple skin, tracing one with the tips of his fingers before continuing. “I can feel it, Illidan. Everything we have worked for, everything we dream of, coming apart at the seams. Akama waits for his sages to tell him of the right moment to reveal his betrayal, and it is because of that foul witch Maiev’s honeyed words to him.” He twisted away, out of Illidan’s comforting grasp, feeling the claws slice lightly across his skin, barely breaking it. The surge of emotion, the instability of his own feelings that was becoming ever more familiar to him, pulling him away from the moment.

Turning to pace, he continued, “My own people turn against me, more every day, despite all I have done for them. While I struggle to find the key to unlocking our freedom, they are seduced by the naaru’s sweet lies of the light, and by that blasted human mage Khadgar. They flee to his ruin of a city, and even fighting amongst themselves I know they are united in their hate of me. I wish the orcs had eaten Khadgar when they had a chance!”  

Kael seethed at the thought that Khadgar had survived, even now. He had been insufferable during his time in Dalaran, the darling child, savior of the First War, apprentice to the Guardian. Why he had been sent to Medivh as an apprentice still confounded him, even after he had argued for weeks with the others of the Six that it was an ill conceived idea. They had all known something was wrong with the reclusive mage, and sending a mere human boy into the fray had seemed cruel and outlandish. Yet they had done it, and somehow the boy came back a hero out of the mess.

Kael let his rage boil up, his frustrations making the twists of energy in the air crackle. “My own people, Illidan, the ones I swore myself to protect, the ones you gave the key to salvation to. And now they go back, begging like dogs to the table of the master who kicked them. I’m left having to use the demons to do half the work I need done, and I can hardly trust them half the time not to wander off to kill something for the fun of it.” The emotional knot that had been building up in his gut suddenly whip-lashed into a mad tangle of thoughts.

“And even now the Horde and Alliance send their forces against us, believing the words of those who have betrayed us.  The goblins even now build an outpost in my domain, while the gnomes on the very doorstep were bad enough, and with that fool Voren’thal’s defection, I have lost the sanctum I had constructed on your very doorstep! How soon until they try to assail Tempest Keep? How soon until they try to assault the Black Temple? I cannot -”

And there he found his voice caught in his throat, unable to say the words, even in anger. It was one thing to think them, another to put them forward as a political possibility, but to think of it as a real likelihood, to acknowledge it, was enough to bring out the emotion to the point he could not do anything but rage.

And yet when he turned to look at Illidan, the brooding elf only reached out, barely bothering to take a half step to do so, and pulled him back into his arms. Without a word, Illidan only bowed his head next to Kael’s own, and he could feel the deep lines of pain and time that marked the face brush against his own skin. The action broke the anger as quickly as it had arisen and Kael cursed at himself, and he sagged into the embrace perhaps a bit more than he should have let himself.

Where the anger had been, there was an empty, dull ache. A place in his heart that might so easily become filled with anger again. For now, he buried himself in the burning magic of Illidan’s being.

 

* * *

 

 

 _“Insolent fools!” His bellow carried through the hallways of Tempest Keep, where now only the few most loyal remained. “They have taken the forges! They assaulted the other tiers of the fortress, and now you tell me they are planning to assault my very halls!” The messenger who had come cowered in supplication before him, but in his rage Kael had forgotten the elf._

 _“How dare they? How dare they!” With the question, one of the verdant spheres that hovered behind him spun crazily out of sequence with the others, pulsing with green light, righting itself as he turned towards the nearest guard. “You! Take your men to reinforce the front gates of the Eye. We cannot be unprepared to meet them.” The guard bowed, then he and the other guards, trailed by the shaking messenger, all but fled the room._

 _It was true, he knew. They were coming. The forces of Horde and Alliance would find their way to his door sooner or later. But it filled him with rage, even then. He fought down the anger, struggling with it, only managing to reduce it to a boiling surge as he returned to the dais upon which he kept court. It was growing harder by the day to fight the anger._

 _He knew the cause. How could he not? He had known what the outcome would be for he and his people within a few weeks of Illidan’s gift to them of the ability to feed upon fel magic. It had been, and even Illidan had known, only a temporary solution. Without the ability to find something more stable, it would drive him and his people insane. Yet now those who had fled him had found the naaru, who claimed their freely given light would feed them until the Sunwell could be remade. Kael knew he would be the first of his people to go mad from the taint, for he had consumed by far more of the energy than anyone else. Each day as he had grown closer to Illidan, and as his lord had become his lover, Kael had known what the outcome would be. There was no way to escape it. Illidan knew, as well, yet they never spoke of it._

 _Alone now in the room, he sunk back among the cushions, trying to bring order to the raging chaos of his thoughts. But all he could think of was the embrace of Illidan, of the swirl of magic that he could drink from eternally. He wanted that, now, more than anything. His people be damned, his world be damned, even the Sunstrider name be damned. There was nothing he could do, he admitted to himself in his deepest moments of despair. He was as helpless to his addiction to his lord now as he had been to the magic of the Sunwell._

 _Only now, it was the cure, not the absence, that would kill him eventually. The demons that his people fed from would drive them as insane as he was becoming, though the process would be by far slower. This was why he had fought so hard to find a way to free his people from their need of demons, why he had captured and imprisoned a naaru to be used as little more than food for his people, and why even now he struggled to help those few who remained loyal. Let the rest simper like dogs to the Light, he would find them a true freedom, even if it killed him._

 _A cushion sailed across the empty room, landing hollowly on the empty floor, an echo of how hollow his own words felt. And with it the rage seethed again. Illidan had had him brought to this horrible, dying world, running from his own failures and bringing Kael along to die a slow, painful death. How could he have done this to him? How could he have let it be done to himself?_

 _The roar of anger that echoed in the room sounded more demon than elf, even to his own ears, though he knew it had come from his own throat._

* * *

 

He jerked sharply out of the images, pulling away just enough from Illidan to make the larger elf start as well, and he found himself looking again into those pale glowing green lights where eyes should have been. Concern was written on the creased face, mixed with fear and sadness.

There must have been a question on his face, for Illidan seemed to answer, “Yes, I am sorry. I know, forgive me.” A hand reached out, but Kael drew away.

“That hasn’t-” he started, and then tried again, “But that has not happened. The forges are secure, the Keep beneath us still teams with my people, though true there are fewer than there were.” Illidan gave only a shrug, looking away from the gaze leveled at him. “And what do you mean, you know?” His own voice was tinged with anger again.

Illidan sighed, wings and horned head sagging. “I knew that you knew the demons were only a temporary source. That they would be as addicting as the magic you had fed upon before was as obvious as well. That you would -” The rasp of a voice paused, and Illidan tried to find somewhere else to look in the room once again. “That in loving me you would doom yourself, I thought you would know.”

He had known, of course. He was too well trained as a mage to know otherwise. Such romances were not a problem among mortal mages, rarely even an issue among high born. He had put the pieces together to make the assumptions of how a city like Dalaran survived as a haven for mages nearly as soon as Illidan had explained about the Sunwell. And he had known in feeding from Illidan as he had, he was drinking the energies of the Skull of Gul’dan, and known their demonic nature. He easily should have - probably really had - put the pieces together faster.

It made sense. The growing instability of emotion in himself, the high and lows of mainia and despair. And though he had known their source, he had not realized, or not wanted to realize, the reason for their rapidity of onset in himself. He felt the flare of anger burn in him, and he felt the sudden urge to lash out at Illidan. To rage against him, and to blame him for all he had done. For the betrayal.

That word undid every drop of anger inside of him. Kael reached out a hand, touching Illidan’s chest, and the elf went still against the touch, hands still half raised in mid air, unsure of what was to come. “I do not blame you, Illidan. I cannot blame you. It would be blaming the rain for washing away the soil, or the ice for cracking stones. I know your nature, I knew it from the first, and yet I was the one who did this to myself.”

He closed back the distance, drawing the taller elf forward by arm and hip, pressing his own broad frame against purple flesh lined in green. Illidan relaxed, yet still seemed hesitant. Beat a dog enough, Kael thought, and all it expects are closed fists when you come to sooth it. How broken and beaten are we both, that this is what we have left? He returned to resting his head against the flesh of where arm and body met, tracing the green runes with his fingers.

Illidan muttered something, but Kael could only feel it as a vibration through his own flesh. Kael made a questioning noise, and Illidan spoke again. “We have only what we have. Neither of us will likely live long beyond these days.” Why did that seem comforting? It was enough like an answer to his internal thoughts to make him smile.

 

* * *

 

 

 _Curled in the darkness of the dungeons of Tempest Keep, he remained hidden from the pillagers who sacked the great naaru fortress. They thought him dead, he knew from the few messages he had managed to receive, let them. None of it mattered now._

 _He shifted, groaning at the surge of pain the focus crystal driven through his chest drove along every nerve as he did so. It had been the idea of one of the few shivarra who had survived, though at first he had not seen her face, and in his state he had been unable to resist her treatment.  Placed there to keep him alive and as a source of power for his body as it attempted to heal the ravages the invaders had inflicted on him, it pulsed slowly with a dim light, like some horrible mirror of his own heart beating, despite his desire. Once again, his fingers traced the edge of where his flesh met the horrible thing, and he contemplated if he could find a way to dig it out of his chest so that death could claim him._

 _There was no reason to live, not now. He had failed, horribly and utterly. Not his people. He had given up on them, as they had given up on him. They hardly mattered now, especially since he had heard the news of their acceptance into the very forces that had destroyed his citadel and work. And he could only laugh, a high mad giggle of a sound, at the thought of having failed himself. He had been a failure to himself for as long as he could remember. Hiding in Dalaran to escape his duties to his people, leaving them to first the morally bankrupt Alliance, then the scourge, and then finally to a slow death. And then fleeing even Dalaran’s ruins at the first chance he had been given, rather than to stay behind and help his kingdom rebuild. He was a coward, and a miserable prince. He would never have lived up to his grandfather or his father’s legacy. The giggle became a slight, crying keen as he continued to feel the edges of the crystal, finding slight gaps where his fingers might slip between its oily surface and his own burned flesh. No, his failure had been to  had been far worse than that. He had failed Illidan, the man who had, while not saved him, granted him a stay of execution. He had not been there when the same forces that had stormed the Keep had finally reached the inner reaches of the Black Temple, aided by Maiev and Akama. Tears tried to spill again, but he found he barely had the energy for them any longer._

 _He curled up around the crystal, fingers clutching it, trying again to see if he could pull the blighted thing from his body. Where he had found the gaps, he worked both fingers and magic, wiggling the lumpy shape inside his own chest, trying to dislodge it from flesh and bone. He groaned, clawing at it, trying with what magic he could manage to pull it out from the crater of his chest. With a shove, he tried to roll onto his stomach to use his weight to push the horrible thing from his body, up through spine and guts to finally free him from this._

 _But the burning hot hands touched him again, pulling his hands away from the crystal, casting cooling magic through him, forcing him back into stillness. Each time he tried, and the demon that had been left to watch him stopped him. How could they stop him? Illidan was dead, killed because he had not been there. He fought against the magic, but his weakened flesh defied his will._

 _Dark, cold laughter echoed in the dim light. It was not the voidwraith that had been left to guard him. Barely conscious, he tried to hope that it might be one of the Horde or Alliance come to kill him. Hoof-falls were barely muffled by the glossy floor of the room._

 _The hand and magic that touched him next made him want to vomit, and the voice made him wish he could redouble his efforts to remove the crystal. A dreadlord towered over him, its wings blotting out what little light there was. “So glad of you to join us, Prince Kael’thas. Ah, yes, you will be quite useful to our master.”_

 _The magic seethed over him, probing at him and easily slipping into his mind. It felt like oil and madness, burning into his soul. Pain flared in his body, radiating outwards from the crystal which now pulsed a diseased greenish yellow, all the while the the dreadlord laughing. The clawed hand moved from shoulder to throat, pulling him up bodily by the neck. The crystal flared again, the light revealing the dark eyes of the demon and the arching curve of his wings._

 _For a moment, all Kael could think of was the last time he had seen Illidan, perched high on the walls of the Black Temple, his great wings curved above him. Forgive me, my love, he managed to think, before the magic in his mind began to twist the image into the corpse he had never seen, nailed to the temple gates by wings and hands. The dreadlord’s laughter boomed in his ear, and the hand tightened as the crystal again flared with light. Blackness and pain overwhelmed him._

 _His next thoughts were as though he was in a nightmare that he could not wake from. He could feel himself moving, and hear a voice speaking. It was his own voice, echoing, and Kael could do nothing to stop it. “Did you honestly believe I would trust the future to some blind, half-night elf mongrel?” The laughter was high and insane, filled with demonic glee. Was that his own? It couldn’t be. Where was he? Silvermoon? It couldn’t be. “Oh no, no, no, he was merely an instrument, a stepping stone to a much larger plan!” No, he wanted to scream down at the faces of his people looking up at him. That wasn’t the case. Never was the case. I loved him! I did not betray him! Yes you did, a voice in his mind whispered. You betrayed him and failed him. “It has all led to this, and this time, you will not interfere!” Inside his own skull, Kael howled, and his body threw itself at the waiting warriors._

* * *

 

He drew a breath that felt like a drowning man drawing in a breath of pure water, the fire and taste of magic filling his lungs with air. His heart pounded in his chest, and the world swam in a sea of colors before his eyes. Confused and disoriented, he reached out, and found firm arms wrapped around his bare chest, supporting him as he lay amid the pillows and carpets of his sleeping area. In his blurred vision, a face looked down at him, green eyes glowing in the dim purple light.

“My -” His voice cracked as he tried to speak, his vision swimming still as he tried to focus. A hand soothed across his now bare chest, and he could feel the slight prick of claws. He reached out for the hand, hoping for the feel of rough skin, rather than the oil slick touch he had felt around his throat moments earlier. The clawed hand closed over his own, and the rough, scarred surface of the palm confirmed that the vision was gone.

“Illidan,” he finally managed, and he heard the rasp of an intake of breath and a sigh like a blast furnace door touched his skin. Even in private, Kael realized how rarely he let himself speak that name without its formal title. His vision slowly cleared, and he could see the concern and worry written on the dark face. “I saw -” A clawed finger brushed against his lips, silencing the words. The heavy horned head nodded slowly.

“I know, Kael.” Kael tried to rise, struggling from the half prone position where he lay, half across the folded legs of his lover. “Lay still, you nearly fainted.” Kael glared at him, and tried to rise again, but Illidan held him still, the effort barely showing, and ran a soothing hand across the bare skin of his chest. Kael shivered. The crystal had been there, in his skin. He could almost feel it still. Just a vision, he told himself.

“The future,” the dark voice rumbled against him, “Is not a pretty place.” There was a dry, bitter chuckle. “Two such visions in one night is enough to tax even you, my prince.” Kael glowered at him, searching for an explanation. Was it the madness in a new form? One he had not anticipated.

“No,” answered Illidan, “these things you see are true. I have seen them myself.”

Kael finally managed to sit up, Illidan’s hand no longer holding him down completely. “How?”

“Ten thousand years in darkness, with only the sight granted to me by the Dark Titan himself, buried nearly beneath the new Well of Eternety itself? I was awash in magic, soaking in it every day and every night. What else would these cursed eyes feed me?” Illidan laughed again, a sound so filled with sadness that Kael reached out a hand to touch him.

“You knew you are going to die? That we are going to fail? And yet you still did these things?” Kael was bewildered. “Surely you could have changed things? Done something?”

Another laugh. “Do I look like Norzdomu to you, little prince? I tried, do not think I did not. But there is nothing I can do, and I know my fate now.”

Illidan drew him close, reading the expression on Kael’s face. “No tears for me, Kael. No sympathy for this demon. I have never liked either.” The long angle of Illidan’s nose nuzzled against the long curve of one of Kael’s ears, and his voice rumbled. “Now do you see why I would rather be here, with you, my prince, than brooding alone among the dead spires of the temple?” Kael could only nod, distracted by the sudden feeling of long, black claws trailing down his chest, tracing the ridge of muscle along the curve of a rib.

“How much -” Kael broke off, distracted again by a clawed thumb now tracing the crest of a hipbone beneath the shear fabric of the robe.

“How much longer?”

Illidan bent down, pushing Kael down into the cushions, twisting one long leg from under the prince before curling his wings protectively over them both before answering. “A few months, I think. No more than that, I am sure.” Kael’s reply was cut off by the press of dry lips and the long black tongue against his lips, giving way to the kiss until he felt he might drown in it.

Illidan laughed as softly as he could, nipping with fanged teeth at the end of Kael’s angular nose. “We own nothing, any more, but these stolen moments.”

Do we even own these, Kael wondered. Can we really be said to have even this? Please, Light - and he winced at his own internal slip back to the faith of youth and foolishness - Please, let us at least have this that is ours.

As Illidan rose from it keeping his face barely a hand’s length from Kael’s own, his thoughts unreadable before he spoke. “Forgive me, Kael. I am sorry I could not save you from them.” The words clenched a fist around his heart, and Kael felt sick. He feels his death is his betrayal of me. Just like he still feels that he betrayed his brother. He’s seen what will happen, and thinks he is to blame. The realization was crushing.

“There is nothing to forgive,” he whispered, reaching up to run a hand along the ragged arc of a dark purple ear. “If this is the fate given to us, so be it. But let us at least,” he kissed a spot just at the intersection of neck and shoulder above him, biting at the flesh and tasting the rotten metal of magic, “live what little of these lives we have been given that is left.”

  


**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my beta Dochand, for reading this as I thrashed through it. And to Vouksen from yulechat for putting up with me screaming about Kael and Illidan. Vol'jin for warchief! Sylvanus for herself!


End file.
